After the Fall
by natureluver
Summary: Set after the fall of Arthedain. Know what that is? Read! Don't? Find out! Chapter Six up after long months of neglect, plus tweakage on earlier chapters.
1. Vigil

A/N: I've worked on this story rather sporadically  
over the course of the last year, so if the writing style is rather  
inconsistent (from ch. 5 to 6, particularly), don't be surprised. For  
background info on this time period (or if you want to spoil the ending!) check  
out Appendix A to RotK, iii and iv. Here goes nothin'!brbr  
  
Arvedui, once the mighty king of Arthedain, was  
slumped dejectedly against a cave wall in northern Ered Luin. Ever since he and  
the last remnant of his soldiers were driven from the North Downs by the  
Witch-King, they had taken refuge in this abandoned mine, once quarried by  
dwarves.brbr  
  
Arvedui held his head in his hands, lightly, as if  
it were going to burst at any moment; which is roughly what he felt like. This  
last stroke of the witch-king against his land had prostrated him... for the  
moment, at least. Not that I hadn't been expecting it! he thought wryly. But  
perhaps, deep in my heart, I never really thought Arnor could fall entirely...  
With ample time for his mind to wander, he could not help brooding over the  
strange unfoldment of the fell king's sovereignty and his own collapse. Looking  
back, he could see that he perceived it with baleful clarity, each sweep of the  
deadly pendulum counting down to this very time. He had observed much of the  
fell king's movements, and was sometimes able to predict his next move. So  
eerie, it was! Knowing these events before they came to pass, but not being  
able to stop them! And all the military strategies, futilely assembling and  
re-assembling companies... about as much use as shuffling a pack of cards!  
True, it may have been of some use; it was lucky that we were able to stand for  
even as long as we did. But the king had had quite enough of intricate tactics  
during the preceding months and years, and now that he was not held to the task  
by necessity, his mind slipped ever deeper into the past, perhaps searching for  
some glimmer of past comfort.brbr  
  
The tale of this last doomed battle began many  
years ago, when he claimed the rule of Gondor at the death of its king and all  
but one of his children. The remaining descendant was Arvedui's beloved Firiel,  
whose marriage to him helped renew ties of friendship between Gondor and Arnor;  
vital ties at this desperate time. Ah, those were happier times! Still the witch-king  
threatened us, but from afar; not belching orc-raids into Arthedain! he  
recalled. And so, the young Arvedui declared kingship of Gondor, being a direct  
descendant of Isildur, and married to the late king's daughter.brbr  
  
His claim was rejected, however, and despite a  
subsequent attempt at persuasion, the crown of Gondor was taken by the popular  
general, Earnil. Arvedui was disappointed, but did not begrudge him this, for  
he knew better than any the importance of friendship with Gondor, the only  
other island of reason among the dark swells of evil seas. I was yet a rash  
young man then! he thought fondly. But not so heedless as to disregard that  
essential alliance, luckily. His instinct proved him right, but he wished it  
hadn't: instead of ruling Arthedain in peace and amity, he was cast out into an  
abandoned cave!brbr  
  
And although, in truth, he did not begrudge Earnil  
the crown, Arvedui could not help reflecting bitterly on the as desperate men are wont to do. He almost laughed wryly aloud,  
thinking, But for one fatal decision by a pack of prideful old men, I could  
have been sovereign of the two greatest kingdoms ever seen in Middle-Earth.  
Instead, I am rotting here in a cave, ruler of naught but a small group, and  
hunted at that! And, most ironic of all, if I am to regain anything, or even  
keep my own life, I will have to rely on the help of those who exacted this  
doom upon me! Still, whatever my past grievances may be, I hope that Earnil has  
not forgotten past goodwill! He tried to quell the rush of ferocious anger  
accompanying his desperation at being cornered like an animal.brbr  
  
Not least of his worries, and certainly more  
troublesome than the loss of a kingdom, was the welfare of his wife, Firiel.  
His ire soon fled before tender anguish on his wife's behalf. Firiel! His mind  
reached out to her across miles of darkened countryside. I would gladly lose  
all the kingdoms in the world for a guarantee of her safety! She was hidden  
away in a haven devised years before, and he hoped fervently that the witch-king  
would not seek out the ingenious queen who had been greatly responsible for  
staving him off for so long. As the years passed, king and queen had been  
brought ever closer in the joint ruling of Arthedain, and they depended upon  
each other for the reason and objectivity so vital to those who rule. Suddenly  
severed from her, Arvedui's instinct urged him to plunge heedlessly back into  
the woods and wilds of Arthedain, and return to her immediately. But common  
sense held him back, and he could only hope that a more roundabout route would  
allow him to return to her in a more prudent way. And so the task at hand was  
to keep himself and his company alive, and find aid that would allow them to  
return to their homeland.brbr  
  
By the moonlight spilling frostily through the  
mine's entrance, Arvedui kept a protective vigil over his faithful followers.  
he sighed into the chill night, Would that I could look  
just once more upon my homeland. I fear that the last time I beheld it may be  
the last I ever shall.Oft hope is born, when all is forlorn, offered a voice behind him,  
suddenly. Arvedui turned to see Anador, most trusted of his soldiers, standing  
behind him.brbr  
  
Ever since he was of age to participate in army  
activities, Anador had quietly joined his elders to practice military drills  
every morning in the castle yard. It had not taken Arvedui long to notice the  
young boy through the forest of taller men, and how soberly he performed the  
drills: correcting his own clumsy mistakes and trying not to attract the attention,  
and therefore ridicule, of the more senior soldiers. The king noticed that,  
even in play with his peers, the boy was almost comically grave and serious.  
When playing war games, Anador's tiny brow would wrinkle solemnly in  
consideration of the against the other boys.brbr  
  
As Anador grew, however, and inevitably became a  
leading officer, the king found that he was not as grave as first impressions  
had conveyed. Indeed, he had an unflaggingly hopeful spirit and was often  
deeply sentimental. In a short time, he served as not only officer, but also  
advisor and confidant, second in importance only to Firiel. The king often  
worried about him as though he was a son, and took interest in his personal  
affairs. In Arvedui's opinion, it was high time that Anador found himself a  
maiden to love; because, for all his proficiency in war, it was plain that he  
was loving by nature. For now, though, Arvedui wondered what troubled the young  
man enough to awaken him in the dead of night.brbr  
  
Good evening, Anador, he said solemnly.  
And what rouses you from sleep at this late hour?The unnatural cold of these mountains seeps into my very bones,  
Anador shivered, And I, too, long to behold Arthedain. But have hope,  
king. We may yet find a way out of this predicament.br  
Arvedui laughed despite his troubled broodings, How is it that you never  
cease to be hopeful in all manner of plights? He gave a last chuckle and  
sighed. Ah, well, whatever its nature, I must admit that I am grateful  
indeed for your optimism, especially when we are all so out-of-place and bent  
out of shape!Out of place and bent out of shape,  
indeed! Anador exclaimed, suspiciously eyeing the low ceiling, on which  
he had recently bumped his head; being, after all, not one of the dwarves of  
old.brbr  
  
This time, Arvedui completely abandoned thoughts of  
his present quagmire, and let peals of laughter burst from his throat. The  
ringing merriment was almost unfitting to the bleak surroundings, and despite  
both men's improved spirits, the king fell silent after a few moments. Lines  
signifying many careworn years crept back into his face. A more sober  
atmosphere settled over them, and Arvedui continued in a more serious vein.brbr  
  
We can only hope that there are more  
opponents of the Witch-King in these bleak areas than just our people, staunch  
in courage though they be. Arvedui's gaze traveled over the sleeping  
company. Soldiers and scouts all, except his beloved daughter Allanora,  
shieldmaiden of Arthedain; they looked strained and militant even in repose.  
They slept soundly despite the cold, scattered down into the twisting halls of  
the mine. Moonlight illuminated their faces and glinted off sundry armor and  
weapons, painting everything in soft, if frosty, shades of blue and grey. The  
king knew every one, though they were many; he knew their strengths and  
weaknesses, their joys and sadnesses (indeed, he had shared many of them!), and  
in that moment he smiled, so great was his love for his people. The King's  
Companions, his officers were called, and aptly named!brbr  
  
But Anador had eyes only for Allanora. Something in  
his steady nature longed for the companionship of the impulsive shieldmaiden,  
and he had looked upon her with loving eyes long before this night. In the soft  
moonbeams, her small form took on an almost elven beauty. Warmed slightly by  
her presence, Anador was lulled to sleep by the soft mountain silence.br  
And the king kept his lonely watch 'till the grey dawn.brbr 


	2. Caving In

A/N: still a short chapter, but I fixed it up with a little bit of the company's mood and Allanora's thoughts. Expect more from Aranarth in revised chapter 3. Hope you enjoy, review and tell me if the revisions are working!  
  
Within the confinement of their tiny cave, the company fretted with the vexation of unemployed soldiers. The burning irritation of being confined with nothing to occupy themselves frayed their nerves, almost a visible rash as people paced, bullied each other, or tried holding conversations. The very air was fraught with agitation, and the almost palpable atmosphere of restlessness seemed to block rational thoughts and bring an unbearable itching to do something, anything! Some reconciled themselves to the lack of activity, but others, like Allanora, needed the busyness to take their minds off the loss of home and country. Add that to the buildup of suspense from wondering if - or when - the fell king of Angmar would discover their hideout, and none could help but notice the tension strung in every muscle. Besides, there were more practical issues: they had not had time to prepare for a journey, so their meager provision supplies now stared emptily at them.  
  
Yet still, they were loath to leave, for where they would go and how they would get there appeared to be unanswerable questions. So, despite the difficulties, many preferred the temporary safety of these caves to the great unknown mountains. Allanora was not among their number, however, and she soon gave voice to the pressure they all felt.  
  
"Five days we have been here now, and our provisions wane quickly!" she exclaimed to the company. "I insist, we must now seek help; for we can no longer fend for ourselves!" Excited and half-feverish from hunger, she adamantly defended her position.  
  
"Daughter, from whom might we receive aid? The whole of Arnor is under the thumb of the witch-king," Arvedui countered with mournful urgency.  
  
Abelard, one of his sons, wondered, "I have heard of a strange northern people who live in snow-houses on the Bay of Forochel, known to some as the Lossarnach. Could we not seek their assistance?"  
  
"'Tis but an old wives' tale," a battle-worn scout scoffed, "And even if it were true, how would we find such a people?"  
  
"Have patience," said Anador softly, "Many a time, such 'old wives' tales' contain hidden truths. With careful searching, we may have a chance of finding some such race." Arvedui nodded, "What other choice do we have?" the king demanded. No one spoke.  
  
Abelard sighed and said, "Well, I shall be glad to leave this dank old mine, at least!" Making an effort to be cheerful, a soldier passed around the last of the beer.  
  
In the hubbub of packing, Allanora slipped out of the mine to a rock ledge overlooking the first trickle of the Lune. Her rosy, youthful face, set with green-gold eyes, portrayed girlhood's vigor soured by the oppressive burdens placed on shoulders too lively to act the pack-horse. The embitterment of losing her home and going into exile chafed her proud mind, and seeing her father so troubled grated upon her soul.  
  
She was always decisive in times of distress, and this made her a good warrior; so good, indeed, that she was given the rare gift of fighting with the men. Yet her great valor had repaid her with this terrible waiting. There was nothing so painful to her as inability to act, and, so confined, her latent hotheaded nature flared up in all its fervor.  
  
However, Allanora was better suited to domestic life than she thought. Her warrior's clothing hid a heart that was warm and loving, just as well suited to peace as to war. But now, it was wartime, and she was not content to be a sitting target for the witch-king.  
  
She breathed in the sharp, crisp air and forced herself to face the fact that her beloved home was being ravaged by the fell king and his men. The surrounding lands were barren and bleak, already paying homage to the king with their wintry garb.  
  
Suddenly, Anador appeared by her side. He offered her the last loaf of bread, and whispered in her ear, "We may yet find solace, though it be not in the lands of our youth."  
  
She did not respond, and they stood for a long moment surveying the once- green fields. Their hands met, and they took comfort in each other's presence. The wind mingled Allanora's dark red hair with the light brown curls of Anador, a vibrant mixture in such a painful landscape. A silent tear coursed down her cheek, and the bitter wind stung them as they looked their last on their homeland. 


	3. Arrival

Beneath the rocky peak where Allanora stood with Anador, the Lune River was born. Its first tiny trickle soon grew to a mighty roar, cutting a wide swath through valley and plain, and plunging over many a precipice. But finally, it reached the ocean, as all rivers must, and there it unburdened itself into the Gulf of Lhûn.  
  
On the shores of this bay, riddled with coves, there sat the greatest shipyards ever seen in Middle-Earth, those of Cirdan the Shipwright. Here he and his workers crafted great vessels capable of carrying many far across the western oceans. On this particular day, the workshops were at their peak of production. The weak winter sun gleamed upon a central courtyard surrounded by sheds and buildings where workers diligently sawed and sanded. Cirdan himself was finishing some intricate carving to grace a small ship, when the clatter of hooves was heard. Startled, he looked up from his workbench just in time to observe a tall, pale young man with tousled brown locks bursting through the great gates into the courtyard. His horse stopped, kicking up eddies of swirling dust, and Cirdan hurried into the yard. He looked at the man, and a worried frown flitted across his brow at the strained look about his eyes and his paper-white complexion. After a moment, however, his frown deepened as he recognized the man as Aranarth, son of Arvedui, and wondered what could bring a king's son to such dire straits. "What brings you here, my friend, weak and in the dead of winter?" he queried.  
  
Aranarth, it seemed, was weaker even than he looked, for he had strength to breathe only one word, "Angmar," before he slumped forward onto his steed, unconscious.  
  
A few hours later, he awoke to a hot meal and Cirdan's grave face, asking him to recount the events that brought him there. Regaining strength but not much cheer from the nourishing food, he began his tale. "The witch-king has struck again," he began. Cirdan drew in his breath sharply, fearing the worst.  
  
"Yes, he now holds dominion over almost all Arthedain," Aranarth continued, "Before the last battle, as we perceived the fell king's forces approaching, our people held a brief council, for their great number struck fear in us. Indeed, there was not a man among us who did not feel the bite of despair in his heart at the sight of those fields of black banners. And so I was sent to ask for aid from you, should our last endeavor fail. I have heard many reports on the way, in taverns and inns, that the battle was lost, and my father and the remnant of his forces were forced to flee and take refuge among the mountains of Ered Luin. There, in mines once quarried by dwarf-smiths of old, they sit, waiting for tidings of good or ill. I was the only messenger, for more could not be spared from the dire straits of battle."  
  
Deep melancholy fell upon Cirdan as his worst suspicions were confirmed. Images came to his mind, unbidden, of the witch-king's great army razing rebellious towns and villages, brutally slaughtering those who fought against them; just as it had been done in Cardolan and Rhudaur before.  
  
"This is grave news for the fate of the good men of Arnor. The insatiable thirst for blood displayed by the fell king of Angmar can lead to nowhere but destruction, and I fear it. So, I will do whatever is in my power to aid the king in exile." Aranarth winced at this frank admission of his father's (and, indeed his own) hunted status. His discomfort did not escape Cirdan's notice.  
  
"Though it pains us to admit the events that have come to pass, it also does no good for us to delude ourselves by hiding the true facts of the situation. We cannot amend what we do not acknowledge."  
  
Aranarth sighed, "You speak the truth, and I am indeed thankful to be in your wise care and company."  
  
Cirdan smiled kindly and reassured him, "Be not afraid! So long as all good men keep hope alive in their hearts, we shall not be entirely conquered. You may yet gain rule of your father's lands." With that, he bustled off to tend to his many tasks.  
  
Aranarth sank back in the bed gratefully, and retired to his own thoughts. The journey had not so exhausted him that he did not observe (and with great foreboding) the fell king's fingerprint upon the land, even so soon after the battle was lost. As soon as news came of Angmar's victory, all sorts of secret supporters came out of the woodwork and began assuming dominion over their villages, torturing the faithful villagers in large and small ways. Any show of support for Arvedui or the former rulers of Arthedain already had to be covert, lest it be punished by the treacherous ones of the village. Many good people still remained, true, but they were beginning to be oppressed, and no end was in sight.  
  
Aranarth knew that the sight of him fleeing to beg aid was not balm for their hearts, either. But what was he to do? "Regain strength," he answered himself, "Prepare for the day we shall regain our homeland." For Aranarth had mettle after the fashion of his sister, though patient and slow-burning in anger, he would accept no defeat. Though to many, the Arthedain of the past was dead, even death was not an obstacle to this willful young man. He promised himself that the fell king would not go unpunished, and, what is more, he relied only upon himself to do it. If others helped him, so much the better, but Aranarth needed only Aranarth. Galvanized by his newfound resolve, he willingly abandoned himself to a deep, healing sleep. 


	4. Into the Unknown

Wind whipped around the mountaintops, wreathing each peak with a great ghostly crown of snow. The gusts howled across caves and slopes, and a shudder ran through the company as otherworldly noises bid them farewell. Peaks as upright as sternly admonishing fingers grimaced down at them. The sheer greatness of the mountains, compounded by the desolate frostiness, was enough to make any man's blood run cold.  
  
The fateful decision had been made, and now Arvedui's melancholy company began filing from the cave. Their chain-mail garments gleamed coldly, and the occasional jewel winked balefully from among the folds of austere fabric. An embroidered banner upon a gilded standard flapped weakly but proudly, last testament to an extinct nation. That they would have to leave behind, because without horses, they could no longer carry anything but the barest necessities. The cave they left behind glittered with sundry forgotten treasures. But even in exile, they were every inch a king's company, heads held high with the pride that sustains when nothing else is left. And they were certainly in dire straits now, striking out to seek a race that they were not sure existed.  
  
Even the king was dubious about the wisdom of abandoning the relative safety of the dwarf-mines to travel Eru-knew-where, but he stood resolutely at the head of the group. The only one whose belief in their pilgrimage was truly complete was the hotheaded Allanora, and she held her head high, though the cold of the frosty ground through her thin shoes was anything but reassuring. Some of the company took heart because of her staunch posture, unwilling to be bested in courage by a woman, king's daughter or not.  
  
And so, faithfully, everyone gathered behind King Arvedui, and he led them north-eastward toward the Bay of Forochel, to seek the hidden Northmen of legend. They traveled many miles, glad for the little warmth provided by constant motion. Even the most unwilling of the men found themselves cheered by the act of traveling, a relief after days of sedentary waiting among dank caves.  
  
They struck up a friendly banter, mostly about days gone by, and the sweethearts they hoped would still be awaiting their return. Throughout the austere and slow miles, they painted visions of feasts in great halls and fond faces they knew well. Life in Arthedain had been luxurious and, despite the witch-king's presence looming upon the horizon, most times had been cheerful and bright. The people of Arthedain trusted their rulers to secure their borders, and many had not foreseen this latest fell stroke, no matter how much the king and his advisors fretted about the witch-king's encroachment into their land. Of course, they heard the dark stories of the villages that fell under the evil king's heavy hand, but until recently, those had remained barroom tales. Now fear was a constant housemate, and all trembled as black and fearsome troops marched through familiar and dear streets, obscuring and obliterating beloved names and faces. But still the men wished to return, to secure their women and children as best they could with their meager protection.  
  
As the tiny sun climbed its way higher into the pale sky, they struck the coastline, and a cheer went up from the company. But the celebration was soon quelled, as they found that the wind was even more brutal without the sheltering arms of the mountains. As hours treaded by with no signs of habitation by man or beast, despair crept ever closer around their minds.  
  
"I like not the idea of traveling even further north," Abelard complained to his father, "'Tis cold enough for my liking already."  
  
"It is a cold life, son," Arvedui replied gravely, "But I, for one, should rather live it this way than exist sheltered, ever walking upon safe ground. For our life is fraught with valor, whatever else its hardships may be."  
  
Abelard assented and added rashly, "Father, I shall prove my mettle by defeating the witch-king once and for all! We will regain our lands, I swear it!"  
  
His father responded softly, "A noble goal, indeed. But remember: the hasty stroke goes oft astray! We must bide our time and gather our strength before we strike any blows to the fell king."  
  
Abelard agreed, but queried, "Was there nothing we could have done to prevent this invasion? Did not our armies heed the creeping fingers of the fell king, slowly choking our lands?"  
  
"Why, Abelard, you had as much time as any, and a sight more clues of this attack than many! Indeed, we scattered troops along our borders, but, being so spread, they fell slowly victim to the seemingly endless hordes. Yet we could not attack in one concentrated spot, for the enemy would not gather in one place. Rather, the fighters attacked and fled, like the cowards they are. This new and virtueless warfare has baffled our tacticians. The scum had to pick off our soldiers one by one before they could face us as they did, at our last stand!" the king spat bitterly, venting his deep resentment for the one who had stolen his ancestral lands.  
  
"I, too, hate the fell king! Oh, father, we must not give up; I love my home too much to let this king have it forever! Never fear, my heart tells me we shall find some aid, some way to regain Arthedain!" Abelard finished encouragingly. But this time, his heart misinformed him.  
  
The small group trooped along the lacy coastline in silence. Ice made intricate patterns on the rocks, cleared away only where the surf had swept. Their boots, not built for such harsh and strange terrain, occasionally slipped off a rock, sending their owners flailing for balance, and they breathed steam as from the mouths of dragons. The company was a grim sight, one tiny clump of soldiers plodding along the rocky coastline, two of them trailing along behind. These, of course, were Anador and Allanora.  
  
"Glad am I that your father was persuaded to let you fight alongside us. I must confide that this exile is a sight more cheerful for your presence!" said Anador, searching her eyes for a spark of favor.  
  
"Alas, no exile can hold cheer for me, no matter whose company I am in! Though I should never have ruled my father's lands, still it pains me greatly to be no more than a wanderer in another's country. And in such a place!" She flung one arm wide with disdain, perhaps seeking to sweep away the whole bleak landscape and whisk herself back where she belonged.  
  
Anador shifted his step. His heart, too, burned to see such a proud maiden trapped here, and tossing her head at her imprisonment. "I shall do my best to see you through the hard times ahead," he told her, bowing his head and reddening slightly, though whether from cold or fervent love, we will never know, "And I promise that, whether or not we regain our native lands, we shall find solace in some home. Perhaps the Northmen we seek will welcome us into their country, and from there I know Arthedain is not too far out of reach. The...love of your fellow-travelers will sustain you until that day!"  
  
Allanora cast her eyes downwards and smiled slightly, not quite knowing what to make of her handsome and eloquent comrade.  
  
And so the warm halo of Anador's ...love sheltered them from the bleak coastline, arched sternly like a frowning brow. As they continued, the terrain became even more austerely rocky (if that is possible), and great boulders began to appear, the terrain sloping slightly upwards in the first hint of foothills. The scouts wondered at the great nameless mountain range that began to approach grandly in front of them, and many thought that they had at last reached the legendary home of the Northmen.  
  
Suddenly, one of the huge boulders strewn across the landscape shifted, and part of it broke off to become an equally huge, bulky man. He was clothed in a silver-grey cape that looked exactly like the surrounding rocks. Even though he was fairly far in front of the company, he cast a great shadow upon the approaching road. A wild, steel-grey beard and almost belligerent black eyes accented a face that could have been hewn of granite. He rumbled, "HALT!" in a rough version of the Common Speech, and spoke a few threatening words that made them feel as threatened as unwelcome intruders. Before King Arvedui could respond, the gigantic form began approaching them, step by step... 


	5. Stranger than Fiction

King Arvedui's hand wavered over his sword. "After all," he told himself, "We are many, and he is only one, giant though he be."  
  
He hesitated before drawing the sword, however; this man could as easily be their savior as their killer. Arvedui was calm in the quiet before the storm of possible battle, as he waited for the mysterious stranger to address the company. He only hoped that his companions would show similar restraint.  
  
Before anyone could make a move, however, the huge man spoke. "Men of the south," he growled, "Why do you trespass in our lands?" The giant silently dared them to pursue the road further without his consent, although the king thought he caught a gleam of boyish excitement in his eye.  
  
Arvedui answered in a firm but chagrined tone, "I am King Arvedui of Arthedain, and I and my company have been driven from our lands by the witch-king of Angmar. We seek the shelter of a people of whom we have heard: the Lossoth. If you are one of them, or of another friendly race, we hope that your leaders will look kindly upon our plea for help."  
  
The giant's granite-like face loosened in amazement; and his eyes, already the size of saucers, became wagon wheels. "We have not heard such terrible news in years! I will take you at once to Chief Volsung," he told them in a slightly less threatening roar.  
  
He turned and began quickly leading the travelers further down what they now recognized as a road. In his haste, the company found it quite difficult to keep up, for the Northman's size lent him great speed. At his every step, the ground shuddered slightly beneath them, and they started at the strange vibrations that shook them.  
  
But mostly they were in shock at the sudden appearance of what must certainly have been one of the long-sought Lossoth. Thousands of questions burned in their minds. Were these really the men of legend? Were all of them this...huge? What would the Northmen's land look like when they got there? The king's companions buzzed with speculation, rumors, and pure amazement. There were more than a few perturbed expressions among them, too, for they knew nothing of this people or their ways, and were not convinced that they would be safe among them. No matter how much the witch- king pressed them from the south, they were loath to deliver themselves into the hands of a people known only through a few vague legends.  
  
The king shared their consternation, but he took the direct approach: he rode up beside the enormous man and began a conversation. Though the king was fairly tall himself, his head was not quite level with the Northman's.  
  
"Dare I hope that our admission into your lands means that you, too, know of the fell king and oppose him?" Arvedui figured that other enemies of the witch-king would be trustworthy enough, at least, to shelter others who had fallen under his blows.  
  
"Of course," the giant responded gruffly, as though slightly incredulous that it could be any other way, "Of necessity, our scouts have been keeping tabs on this vile conqueror, lest his threat spread northward. We certainly could not leave such a menacing power unwatched."  
  
"Perhaps you knew of Arthedain's existence, then, too?" the king queried.  
  
"Yes," the giant responded tersely.  
  
"Ah! I wonder how it is that we were not aware of your presence save through a few scattered legends. As a king, I am disappointed to be ignorant of surrounding realms, especially those willing to ally themselves against a common enemy." Years of diplomacy training had provided Arvedui with tools for deftly avoiding accusal of the Northmen for not sending much- needed aid. He hoped fervently that this seclusion did not mean that the Lossoth were hostile to foreigners.  
  
"Unfortunately, my people are reluctant to make contact with outsiders, even friendly ones. We are discreet - and discrete - enough that we make few enemies, if any," he chuckled, "Others find our climate inhospitable, too, so we tend not to require allies in war. Some, like me, think the Lossoth could benefit from some foreign ties, but most are overly wary of other nations. They just want to be left well enough alone, and I certainly do not blame them for that, especially when the most we see of Southwards is news of the witch-king. Me, though, I'll jump at the chance to meet new people." he sighed.  
  
"Mind you, that does not mean that you and your company will not be given a warm welcome. Be prepared to be gawked at, though!" he cautioned jovially.  
  
The king was so relieved by this news that he felt comfortable enough to let his guard down some. "That is welcome news, indeed! But if I am truly to be familiarized with this land, perhaps it would help to know your name?"  
  
"I am Gunnar, and be sure to tell them that, too!" Gunnar motioned towards the rest of the company, having caught far too many mutterings of "Giant!" from that direction.  
  
The nearest soldiers caught this, and laughingly passed on the message. So the king's companions continued their journey, relieved by a renewed feeling of safety. For a time, at least.  
  
A/N: yes, i stole the names Gunnar and Volsung from Norse mythology. So sue me. 


	6. Patched Sails

Author's Note: Very new chapter. less edited and slightly less thought out than previous ones. Because I hadn't become sufficiently familiar with my characters at the beginning of the story, this chapter is mostly character development. I would much appreciate it if you take a bit of time to tell me what worked, what didn't, etc. -----------  
  
Allanora let her back slump slightly under her nearly-empty pack. To all appearances, she was bedraggled and tired, but her mind was whirring fast under unwashed, matter hair. The appearance of this Northman had driven away all thoughts of fatigue, and her mind turned from her achy feet to the large frame in whose shadow she moved. So the old wives may be right, for once, after all the times they led me wrong! If I live to see help from this 'legend,' I'd end my vendetta against those hags in a second, and beg pardon for all the devilments I've brought upon them. Not that they weren't fully deserving of it at the time. she thought, following this line of thinking into what now seemed the distant past.  
  
Yes, I could not walk indoors without one of them onto me in seconds about the unladylike state of my clothes, hair. regaling me with speeches about the danger of tree-climbing. And, far worse, telling me time and again that the small boys I beat in swordfighting and horseback riding were by no means going to desire me as a bride a few years later. Oh! I detested that.nay, say rather I do detest it most of all: the constant references to marriage. 'Use your fork, dear, no man wants a wife who cannot be displayed at royal dinners.' Yes, it seemed everyone in that house was bent on marrying me off, and quickly. except my father. He saw it as a necessity, true, but he respected my pursuits nonetheless. Although, looking back, I'd wager he was a bit surprised that my soldiering turned out to be anything more than child's play. I remember him smiling almost indulgently when the nurse towed me up to his office for discipline, as I reeked of stable or midden. Then, when the nurse left in a huff, he would wash my face and send me on my way. As I got older, though, he once sat me down on the throne and clasped the Eärendilmir on my brow, with me still unwashed and squirming slightly. He knelt to one side of the great chair and propped his arms of the edge of the armrest, and asked how it felt to be royalty. I remember saying, 'But Ada, I'm all dirty!' and he smiled sadly and told me slowly about ruling a kingdom, and how difficult and delicate it was, and how the people wouldn't have very much faith in a noble lady who crawls about in the middens all day. 'Don't they want me to have fun?' I asked. 'Unfortunately, Alya,* you aren't the center of the world. what the people want, just like you do, is to be happy. And sometimes we have to put aside our own desires in order to govern fairly. When the time comes, I know you will be able to do that, but it is indeed a great challenge.'  
  
Allanora broke suddenly out of her reverie of bittersweet memories. A challenge I wish I had the opportunity of facing, now.strange that I should have been trained from birth into this way of life, my mind refined for the ins and outs of subtle political strategy, and when my time becomes ripe, to be cast away from all of it with little hope of return. Yes, we are all political tools without a use.but my discomfort is the least of it. What of my brother, who would have been king? I wonder how he fares, and whether he has been able to secure aid for us.  
  
  
  
Aranarth sauntered down the sunlit hall of workshops bordering the courtyard of Cirdan's large havens. The spacious, well-lit hall resounded with the sounds of hammering from inside the rooms he passed, and a smell of fresh wood wafted through the tall doors. Motes of sawdust floated on the wind, gathering briefly and suddenly being scattered by a particularly malicious gust. Not, of course, that anything would seem malicious about the wholesome Elven-built halls Aranarth was wandering.  
  
Looking at the sawdusty floor as his mind wandered, he lengthened his strides so as to step directly from one of the squares of sunlight projected from the large windows onto the floor to the next. He was beginning to feel out of place among the many Elves at the haven. But it is doubly haven to me, Elves or no! When I first came here, I was far too. heartbroken to notice much about the residents. Yes, heartbroken, but I also recall this feeling I have in the pit of my stomach from when I was a child and broke something of my parents'. This whole situation has thrown me back onto my childhood instincts, he thought, abruptly and rather ashamedly breaking off his pattern of stepping into the sunlight, but this is something different. Strange that I should feel. guilty, almost, for Arthedain's fall. Admittedly, I have done my best, and it is no fault of mine that I did not stand for the last battle. I am the heir, after all, and it is from me that the blood of Numenor must descend in the North. But there's not it, either.  
  
Aranarth began to become frustrated with himself for being so uncertain, both of how exactly he felt and why. Usually he was able to pin down his own thoughts, and if not control, then at least track the progression of his own emotions. Yet, 'tis unreasonable of me to expect anything to be normal. No, it seems everything is caught up in a great whirlwind.the fabric of our lives being separated strand by strand, painfully teased out and knotted back together into something foul, mocking the forms that the race of Numenor has painstakingly constructed.Ai! Do not think this way, Aranarth! It was a measure of his distress that he volleyed so between thoughts. He decided that pacing about was not going to help him, and was just wandering off to find something useful to do, when he nearly bumped into Cirdan.  
  
"Ah, Aranarth! Just whom I've been looking for," he peered into Aranarth's eyes, and Aranarth found it impossible to keep the Elf from looking straight through his consternation. "Good news," he said solidly, laying a heavy hand on the other man's shoulder, as if to bring him back to the concrete world. "We've ships and men ready to sail for the North. Early tomorrow morning the tides should be right, and we shall find that company of yours, hmm?"  
  
Aranarth did not smile, but the lines lifted from his brow and he clasped Cirdan's other hand like a lifeline. "Thank you, Lord Cirdan. Whatever may come of this, your generosity towards Arnor shall not be forgotten so long as my line lasts."  
  
*alya - Quenya, meaning "blessed." Here used as a nickname. 


End file.
